The Black Rose of Persia
by Ame the Pirate Queen
Summary: A Persian assassin murders Raoul's father and the woman responsible remains in Paris to wreak general havoc. The one problem is, she never believed she would run into the man who first introduced her to the darkness that now rules her life. ErikOW
1. Chapter One

_Author Note: I have loved POTO for so long; I decided to try my hand at writing a fic. Please, tell me what you think. I just want it to be known that this is an Eric/OW story and the romance between them will be a long time coming. If you don't mind having to wait some chapters for the angsty fluff to start showing up, read on!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything within this story with the exception of Adara._

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The Black Rose of Persia

Chapter One

With a straight back, she began to walk towards the raised dais. Those few gathered in the vast chamber grew silent as the slight figure of a woman silently moved past them. She looked like somebody had cut a sliver of shadow out from an abandoned, derelict building and given it life. The only colour on her being was the pair of burning violet eyes that shone out from her pale face, her lips twisted in the faintest of smirks.

It took mere moments for her to be standing perfectly erect before the glittering man on the dais, those amethyst chips in her face shining like the jewels that bedecked him. Their gazes met and it seemed as if a minor battle for power occurred between them. She inclined her head, acquiescing and then clasped her hands loosely in front of her. The seemingly self conscious gesture contradicting the strength and assurance her stance portrayed. A complete hush lay heavily across the room's occupants, all waiting in fierce anticipation for the conversation that would ensue.

"Welcome home." His voice rolled over the congregation, the tension flowing out of countless bodies.

"Thank you, Sire." She said simply.

He motioned absently, his stare never leaving the creature before him. All withdrew from the massive hall, leaving them alone. The self assured smirk slipped from her face to be replaced with a grimace. She flipped her dark hair over her shoulder, impatience gleaming on her attractive features.

"I take it, because you returned, that you have completed your task?"

"Yes, it is done." There was something cryptic in her tone, something that made her dark eyes harden just a mite more.

"Good, you have yet to disappoint."

She did not find it necessary to mention that if she had been unable to fulfill the guidelines of this specific job, she would not have taken it in the first place. She was not one to displease her employer.

"If you have nothing else to ask of me, then I humbly ask permission to withdraw my personage from your blessed presence." Perhaps to the casual listener she sounded perfectly honest, but the man's brow furrowed and his pleased expression seeping into one of irritation.

Yet he would reprimand her on her behaviour towards him, it would be unthinkable to chastise a being such as her for her actions. His forehead remained wrinkled as he shook his head and reached into a pocket of his lavish robe. His fingers withdrew, clutched about a scroll of heavy papyrus. He very simply handed it to her; the crimson silk ribbon keeping it closed gleaming in the candle light. She plucked it from his grasp and slipped it into one of the numerous hidden pouches in her seemingly skintight clothing.

"You will alert me when you decide?"

She smiled darkly up to him before turning and elegantly strode out. Cyrus, the Sultan of Persia, watched her go with mixed emotions in his black eyes. Sometimes, he did not know if it was worth hiring the Black Rose to do the dirty work of a country. There was something eerie about her that upset the inner most part of a person. It was like she felt no remorse over the amount of senseless killing she did on a day to day basis. Perhaps, the rumours were true about her. He shook his head quickly to clear those ridiculous thoughts from his mind. She was just a woman who had seen too much, a creature who had gone insane.

* * *

Adara closed the heavy door to her rooms behind her, casting the thin over robe that kept her clothing from being too indecent for every day wear onto a near by chair. She pulled the cylinder of paper from the inner pocket of the discarded garment and made her way towards a desk that faced a wide window. Afternoon light fell delicately across the red wood, bringing out the deep garnet and amber hues. She pulled the chair out at a haphazard angle, dropping into it with little preamble. Her feet soon rested on the top of the angle as she untied the ribbon, dropping it carelessly onto the ground beside her.

Upon furling it open and skimming the words, she let out a snort. Had the Sultan forgotten the single place she had ever refused to venture? She shook her head slowly and tossed it onto the paper laden surface of her desk. If he wanted her to go to France, of all the ridiculous places to venture, then he could hire another. The single promise she had ever honored had been begged of her by her mother to never go to France. She had vowed it and intended to keep that single pledge. She dragged her slender hands through her long hair, the obsidian locks tumbling down her back. She closed her eyes and leaned rearward, tilting her head down.

She let out a quiet sigh; her shoulders were tensed to the point where it was a true feat of nature that she could move without extreme pain. She rubbed a hand across her face and allowed all four the chair's legs to press against the floor. She twisted in her chair, causing the vertebrae in her spine to crack quite audibly. A quiet noise caught her attention behind and she deftly sprung from her chair, a dagger that had been hidden in her boot finding its way in her hand in the space between to heartbeats, it poised between her fingers, prepared to be thrown. A maid let out a terrified squeak and nearly dropped the ornate tray she held, her dark hues widening in horror.

"I am so sorry, Lady!" The serving girl squeaked, the trembling of her hands making the small metal cups rattling.

She let out a tired sigh and slipped the knife back into its specifically designed sheath, the dark hilt blending easily with the rest of her clothing.

"Never mind, just do not do it again. Put the tray down and then take this message to the Sultan. Only he may see this, do you understand me? If anybody attempts to question you, tell them this is from the Black Rose, nobody will stop you."

The young servant very nearly dropped the dish on a low lying table and took a few tentative steps towards her. She bit back a snort before quickly scripting a reply to the proposal. She handed the folded parchment to the shaking girl and watched in mild amusement as she flung herself out of the room. A soul deep sense of weariness descended onto her as the door slammed shut. She yawned quietly into her hand and wandered to her bedroom, not believing Cyrus would make a great fuss over her decision to deny his plea.

* * *

A presence reaching towards her throat registered first and her eyes snapped open, fingers unconsciously reaching beneath her pillow to withdraw a stiletto that glinted sinisterly in the single candle left alight in her boudoir. She pressed the razor sharp metal against the other's neck, her amethyst eyes gleaming with something akin to madness. The man lay fully on his back with her crouched over him, her hair falling around her face like a curtain of purest obsidian, a deep blue sheen reflecting the faint glow from the taper. One leg was bent and against his thigh, the knee of her other leg pressing against his groin. The man below her did not attempt to push her off, merely staring up at her with a blank expression. 

"What are you doing here?" She growled, pushing her knee harder against him.

"The grand Sultan wishes you to reconsider."

She let out a hiss and jerked the blade away from his throat, rising to her feet. He would not attempt to harm her if he was on Cyrus's orders. The Sultan would never consider killing her, she was too valuable and that information made her invincible while she was in Persia. She slammed the stiletto onto the elegant wooden bedside table and crossed her arms beneath her breasts as she stared down at him with a cold expression on her features.

"You can tell him that I refuse, no matter what he can offer me."

The man rose to his feet, never one bringing a hand up to feel the thin cut on his neck where the blade had bit into his throat. He smirked darkly at her, his own countenance twisting with some inner perversion.

"The Sultan told me you would say that. Perhaps, this little snippet of information will change your mind. The man he is contracting you to kill is your father."

What little colour her face possessed, drained steadily from her cheeks as her lips parted in surprise. She was the product off a series of trysts between a visiting French nobleman and the niece of the Sultan of that time. It had been quite the love affair of the time. The few who had been granted knowledge of the relationship fully believed the two would wed and she would be taken back to France, where they would live happily ever after like all the fairy tales proclaimed.

It had not gone to plan.

Samara discovered she was pregnant with her paramour's first born child, the heir to his estates and titles in his home country. Delighted with the information, and the belief that her place in her lover's life was established, she told him her joyous news. Alain was horrified with the news that the woman who he considered was nothing more than a means to an end carried his first born child, an infant that, despite being conceived out of wedlock, would be considered his legal heir.

If any ever found out that he had fathered a child, it would bring such shame down upon his family. He left Persia that very night, leaving Samara and their unborn babe behind. Adara's mother had instilled a deep hatred for her father within her heart from the moment she began to comprehend speech. Her view on a paternal figures in general was twisted into something that could no be viewed without lingering stains of intense loathing.

She bared her teeth in a silent snarl at the man's proclamation, detesting how Cyrus knew that she would break her vow because of that tiny piece of information. She clenched her hands into fists as she glared at the man, fighting the urge to imbed that piece of glittering metal deep within his throat. Her crescent moon nails dug into her palms as she mulled over her decision for a brief second before letting out a nearly inaudible sigh.

"Tell Cyrus to be expecting news of the death of Alain de Chagny within the month."

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_I hope you liked this first chapter and I would appreciate some feedback. Please review!_

_Blessed Be  
Ame the Pirate King_


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, wish I did, but I don't.

Author Notes: For anybody reading this, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I need feedback about the death scene at the very bottom…Okay, there was actually some Erik in this chapter, kudos to whoever can figure it out, it's not that challenging.

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Black Rose of Persia

Chapter Two

Small clouds of visible breath hung in the air before her face as she closed a door behind her. The innkeeper had not mentioned, at least to her face, any suspicions about the peculiar demands she made. Adara pulled the heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to ward away the freezing air she was so unused to, shaking her head slowly. The weather that seemed freezing during the winter in comparison to her homeland was just one more reason she added to the list that would keep her from ever coming back to France.

Within moments of her standing on the stone steps of the inn, a lush carriage soon rolled up before her. A slight smirk tugged at her lips as she took in the coal dark horses whickering, their eyes glinting red in the dusk. She touched the one of the equine's lightly on its neck, the cool material of her leather gloves doing little to mute the heat rolling from the animal. Somebody cleared their throat behind her and she slowly turned, the chips of amethyst in her face glowing unnaturally.

The driver shifted his weight nervously, his hat clutched against his chest as he jerked his head in direction of the closed door carriage. No words were needed and she simply glided forward, the entrance opened silently. She slipped inside and spread her skirts around her once she had taken a seat, the heavy gloom of the enclosed space a welcoming weight on her personage. A lurch alerted her that they had begun the journey towards the de Chagny estate, a frisson of wicked joy blossoming up her spine.

Revenge, finally she would gain closure over an issue that slowly had worn her sanity away since childhood. The man who had abandoned her expecting mother nearly two and a half decades earlier would meet the end that had slowly been creeping up on him since he impregnated Samara in his youth. Her carefully manicured fingers dug through the leather of her gloves into her palms as fury bubbled inside of her, begging to be freed in the seductive dance of power engaged in by the predator and her prey.

Contrary to popular belief in Persia, she was insane. Perhaps her soul had been tainted by the darkness exposed to her at a young age and it had take root within her, shaping her future. A fond smile tugged at her lips as she thought of the man who had taken that particular sliver of innocence from her, the naivety of never viewing that final moment of a person's life. The sultana's personal architect and assassin had showed her, perhaps without meaning too, that even the small and downtrodden in society could rise to the top and be respected.

Yet, no killer could be respected. They were feared, that was all. Such information had been one of the few things that would have kept her out of such a lucrative profession, but she had been in such a state when she was younger for money, it had tipped the balances. Within the short span of a few years, she had gone from being unknown, a hate bastard child between a Frenchman and a Persian of royal blood, to the most infamous assassin in all of Persia's history, the Black Rose.

To be honest, she thought the name given to her by the populace was terribly trite and generic, but the wicked never get a say in what they are called. Few actually knew of her existence before she began and she knew the current Sultan would be horrified if he had knowledge that the 'ruthless killer' was actually one of his closest blood relatives, his own second cousin. She suspected if he ever found out, she would most likely undergo an unfortunate 'accident'.

She shook her head, clearing it of such thoughts, and retrieved the elegant porcelain from its place on the cushioned bench beside her. The carriage's forward momentum came to a gradual halt and she pressed the cool mask against the contours of her face, completing her costume. It had not been difficult to have an invitation for the Vicomte's Masquerade Wedding Anniversary Ball, simply posing as a visiting noble from her home country and within hours of being within the country, she had been counted amongst the numbers attending.

Upon exiting the now stopped carriage, the massive front doors to the manor were opened by stiff backed butlers and she smoothly sailed through. After being directed by a man standing inside, Adara soon found herself standing at the top of a large flight of stairs that opened up into the ballroom.

'_How generic.'_ She thought condescendingly to herself. _'All French mansions must have these; I cannot wait to get back to blessed Persia.'_

She was soon swallowed up by the crowd watching the new arrivals, they all commenting on the costumes chosen. As she walked through the mass, it pleased her when several drew suddenly quiet. The gleaming skull mask that hugged her face gave the likeness of a skeleton, the bone hue a striking contrast to that of her flesh. Her obsidian gown that seemed to cling to her at some moments while flowing loosely around her at others depending on the position of her body, the garnet seeming almost fluid as if it stained the clothing she wore. Her golden skin gleamed beneath the light of countless hundreds of candles and those one of a kind violet eyes burned with an inner fire many would liken to demonic.

Her arms remained loose at her sides, for she stuck out enough when one compared the hue of her flesh to that of the other ladies present. She had taken few steps before somebody lightly touched her arm. All her instincts, honed over the years, flew into action and it took all of her willpower not to rip one of the hidden weapons she had concealed on her personage and do bodily harm to whoever startled her. All thoughts of manslaughter fled from her mind when she took in the warm, smiling face looking up to her. Upon seeing the mask on Adara's face, the young woman's breath jumped and she pressed a hand against her chest in surprise.

"Your mask…is frighteningly lifelike."

She inclined her head, heavy curls staying pinned elegantly against her head. "It is my intention, my Lady."

"You must be Persian sultan's cousin, Lady Adara, correct?"

Adara fought the need the glower down at her, biting her tongue to keep an acerbic remark quiet. It would not be well if she insulted the hostess, even in France she had to hold some decorum.

"I thought the idea of a Masquerade was that each identity was to remain a secret." Her voice held the richness that had not been diminished when her blood became diluted with French genes.

The girl giggled brightly, her dark brown eyes shining with innocent excitement. "Of course, please forgive me." She winked at the Persian before continuing. "We'll just have to keep it a secret then, won't we?"

"What will you be keeping a secret?" A man perhaps a few years older than the Vicomtess appeared, wrapping one of his arms around her waist.

Adara's blood began to boil when she took in his features. He was a splitting image of the man who had given her half of her chromosomes and she knew in that instant that this was the boy he had fathered, the creature he had left her mother to spawn. The hand behind her back clenched into a tight fist, the delicate crescents of her nails biting through her gloves and sharply into her palm for the second time in less than an hour. She forced the hatred from showing in her eyes, instead shoving a kind smile onto her face. If she did not loathe France as much as she did, she would stay and eradicate all of her family in the worthless country her father made his home in. She refused to spend more time than she absolutely had to in the blasted land, no matter how tempting it was to remain.

"Monsieur le Vicomte." She inclined her head in greeting, biting back the urge to call him her brother.

His wife made a putout noise. "I thought we would be keeping each other's identities a secret!"

Raoul de Chagny chuckled and pressed a kiss against her temple, before looking down at the Persian assassin with an amused expression on his face. "I hardly think it is difficult to guess who we are, Christine."

Christine sighed before throwing an adoring glance up to her mate, that expression making Adara's stomach curdle with the warmth. Something, she refused to call it jealousy, that blasted green eyed monster, welled up inside of her at the obvious love the two shared and before she could let that treacherous emotion get the better of her, she dropped into a light curtsy.

"If you would please excuse me, my Lord and Lady." She did not wait for an answer from either, before turning and quickly fleeing,

Just as Adara was leaving, she caught sight of Christine's swollen stomach and the girl's impending motherhood simply sped up her pace until she was on the other side of the ballroom. She breathed heavily out from her nose and barely had time to collect herself before she heard a throat clear behind her. She turned slowly and shock filled her at the sight of a man dressed as a sultan standing before her. He grinned broadly and offered her his hand, a clear invitation. She laced their fingers and was pulled into the mass of waltzing bodies.

* * *

She lost count of the people she danced with, loosing herself in the pleasurable rush of letting her body take over and the music washing over her, the only conscious thing she registered. She did not return to full awareness until she suddenly caught sight of a man who appeared to be the older version of the young Vicomte. A growl rose up in the back of her throat as her gaze followed his dancing form and she quickly excused herself from her partner.

She walked with a purpose towards the nearest wall, snatching a delicate glass of champagne from a passing tray, her violet eyes never once leaving the man who broke her mother's heart. She watched him throw back his head in laughter and over the murmuring of the crowd, caught him speaking about something he needed from his study. Taking this chance, she pressed her full flute of alcohol into some faceless person's hands before striding smoothly, though clearly with a purpose, towards the direction he was going in.

She was absolutely content with the knowledge that no one would be looking at her as she slipped out of the door her father exited mere moments before, for countless others continued to stream in an out of the portals to the massive room. The second the crowd thinned until she was the only one following at a distance, her fingers found the hidden string that kept the flowing material of her dress on her hips; deftly she untied the concealed knots. The heavy cloth fell in a graceful puddle around her feet and she stopped slightly, scooping it up.

She held the discarded dress against her and easily stashed behind one of the abominably sized plants that littered the de Chagny manor, her skull mask hidden in the folds. All that remained of her once proud gown was the tight dark under layer that other women would consider to be a chemise if it had not been something similar to a man's fencing shirt and pants that fit her body like a second skin. She reached into the pile of cloth and plucked a simply swath of fabric from its depths.

She wrapped it around the lower portion of her face, yet another mask to help protect her true self from being found out. Resting comfortable at her hip, clasped by yet another piece of ingeniously crafted black material, was a curved sword a little bigger than an averaged size dagger, a sickle. The weapon had been easily concealed beneath the voluminous folds of her skirt. She began to move, this time creeping along without a sound. She seemed to move in the shadows and had any seen her they would have likened her to the long since extinct ninjas of Asia, if they even knew what such devious assassins were.

She was extremely proud to say that she had learnt much of what she knew from a wizened old man who claimed to have ancestors that had been one of those elite few. Whether or not this information had been true, he had taught her well. She excelled in her dark profession and she could not smother the rising anticipation of the kill. She rapidly caught up with Alain. To her greatest joy, he entered a side room not long after she found him once more. She paused briefly before entering, taking a brief moment to take in several calming breathes to soothe the ferocious beating of her heart and the adrenaline pumping in her veins.

Her glove covered fingers wrapped loosely around the polished bronze of the handle, lightly pushing it and walked into the study. She closed the door quietly behind her and leaned against the wood, looking at the man with an expression of deepest detestation freezing her attractive features. She waited in silence until he turned around, the elegant spun glass orb in his hands falling to the ground and shattering entirely upon contacting the smooth stone floor.

"Who are you and what are you doing in here?" His sky hued eyes found the blade sheathed at his side and he moved to grab something from one of the drawers of the desk at his side.

In less that a heartbeat, she stood before him with the sickle grasped comfortably in her hand and the tip of the metal pressing lightly against his Adam's apple. Beneath the veil shielding her face from nose to chin, her lips were twisted into a furious mask of hatred. The emotion, however, was not restrained in her eyes. Those tumulus orbs of amethyst glowed from within with that same near demonic fire from earlier, swirling maelstroms of chaos that sucked in all that was good and pure in the world and warped it until it was something, horrible.

"Please, you can have whatever you want, just do not harm me, my family, or any of the guests. Please, no one will ever know that you were here."

Adara threw her head back and let out a cold chuckle, returning her disturbing gaze back to his colour drenched face. She smirked at him and with her free hand, ripped the shroud from the lower portion of her face, allowing him to take in her features for the first time, complete. His brow furrowed for a moment, his attention momentarily being drawn away from the sharp blade nicking his neck.

"You look like…"

"…Samara?" She spat. "Well fancy that, I just so happen to look like my mother."

His lids widened as his lips moved silently, clearly calculating something in his mind. His arms, which had been attempting to force her wrist away, fell to his sides as he came to a sudden realization. His stare swept across her countenance, as if trying to find something hidden that only the most searching of glance could find. He found what he was looking for.

She smirked frigidly at him. "Yes, you recognize this face, don't you? The face of your first born _daughter_."

His mouth opened and closed silently like a fish, horror sucking what little colour remained in his cheeks. She dug it further into his skin, thin rivulets of crimson liquid dribbling past the metal. She, simply with nothing more than the surprising intimidating force of her petite form, pressed him against the desk.

"You abandoned my mother before I was even born. You never considered her to be more than a summer fling, someone to get your most basic urges out before you married some blue blooded French chit and was _respectable_. So, you left your pregnant lover alone in Persia, the favoured niece of the Sultan, and fled like a _animal_ with its tail between its legs. All my life I have hated you. I cannot tell you how pleased it makes me to know that my face will be the last one you will ever see, the face of the woman you scorned nearly two and a half decades ago. Goodbye, Alain."

She briefly pulled the sickle away from his neck and if a single, brutal gesture, slashed the razor sharp blade against his throat. The force of her blow cut easily through muscle and sinew, very nearly removing his head from his shoulders. She stepped away from his freely bleeding corpse, paying no heed to the spray of blood that stained her golden neck and face. She wiped the crimson stained steel against the fine silk of her deceased father's clothing, sliding the cleaned blade home in its sheath.

Without pausing to think, she left the rapidly cooling cadaver alone in the study and picked up bundle of clothing she had dropped off before completing her job. Within moments of the kill, the sweetness of the slaughter rapidly disappearing from her bloodstream, she had disappeared into the night. She did not stay at the de Chagny residence long enough to hear the high pitched wail of a serving girl stumbling across the carcass of her dead lord.

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Galasriniel: Thanks for reviewing that was nice. I hope you like this chapter; it was so much fun to write.

Blessed Be

Ame the Pirate King


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